On Edge
by thermodynamic
Summary: Tim Shepard's life has no room for romance, and some Catholic schoolgirl who runs with the River Kings isn't about to change that. At least, that's what he keeps telling himself.
1. Barely Legal

_It's 'the cops are coming in' type of sobering up_

_It's a girl who never learned that I could not give enough_

_And my friends are happy, I'm happy, I've learned to adapt_

_Darker kind of humor, and I can still hear 'em laugh_

— The Beers, The Front Bottoms

* * *

_November 5th, 1964_

"So, eighteen," Dallas says, giving me the kind of smile a tiger has after a successful hunt. "Big age."

I take a hesitant sip out of my Solo cup— the IPA tastes like ass, the bitterness worse than drinking straight coffee grounds. Shouldn't have expected Dallas to go to no great lengths to celebrate me becoming a man, but I suppose I'm more the fool for having left organizing a party up to him. "Guess it is to a _sixteen-year-old_ kid."

Our birthdays are four days and a year apart, and you bet your ass I'm gonna razz him about this one for the next half a week. Wouldn't be our relationship if I didn't.

"Well, ain't you a big man now." Dallas chugs the contents of his cup without stopping, his throat pulsating with every swallow. "Now, next step in our lil' celebration… gettin' you laid."

"Shuddup," I say easily, but there's an icy chill crawling up my spine as I come out with it. "Like I need your help scorin' pussy, Jesus."

Though in all honesty, I have in the past.

"Nah, he's right, _compa_, you need to get back in the saddle," Luis lovingly adds, and slaps me hard enough on the shoulder to knock me forward. "So you got messed around on, shit, happened to me twice— and them broads tried to pass the kids off as mine, you got off damn easy." I literally bite down on my tongue. "Wrap. It. Up, by the way, what'd I always tell you." He nudges Dallas, leaning over me to do it: I can smell the hot stink of bourbon on his breath. This isn't the first party he's been to, and somehow I doubt he'll be hanging around a teenager's much longer, even his own nephew's. "Hey, kid, you're still comin' over for poker Thursday, right?"

"Yeah, get ready for me to clear you out, though—" Dallas gets away with running his mouth the same way Curly does, has enough sheer audacity to pull it off— "you know I have the face for it."

I've offered him the chance to join my gang a million times, without a jump-in, even, but he's happy spinning his wheels with the Curtises and I can't talk him out of it. Though I won't say it out loud, I'm pretty sure it's because he couldn't handle not being in charge.

Curly strolls past us and already looks close to hammered, skinny fourteen-year-old kid that he is— he might be my brother, but I wish Luis and Alberto hadn't brought him here tonight, last thing I'm in the mood for is being on babysitting duty. "Hey—" I grab him by the elbow before he can teeter off towards his friends, mostly cousins of guys in the gang— "that better be your last one."

"Awh, c'mon, get the stick outta your ass," liquor gives him the courage to say, and if it wasn't my birthday, I'd smack him right across that smart mouth. Curly knows better than to give me attitude, especially in public. "Like _tíos_ wasn't pourin' me more for a nightcap when I was twelve."

"Kid, you're lucky I even let you stay here at all, much less talk shit to me." I only let him go after I've ground my knuckles into that greasy scalp of his. "Ma sees you comin' home wasted, it ain't her lil' baby Carlitos she's gonna be pissed at, is it?"

He flips me the bird once he thinks my back is turned, but I don't really care enough to get on him for it, take another sip instead and regret it once my head starts to spin. I don't get wasted, especially not in public; not even on special occasions, not even when _tios _are barely conscious. I tell myself that it's because I need to maintain my boys' respect, set a good example— nobody respects some lush stumbling around, shooting his mouth off, starting fights he can't win. Really, I just can't stand being out of control.

"Curly on your nerves already?" Rafa grins at me through a mouthful of grass smoke; I can't help but smile back a little, he gets it. "Damn, _vato, _it's your birthday party and that ain't even enough to make you happy?"

"I'm never happy," I say, settling back into my natural facial expression: an appraising scowl. "Nah, not really him, Winston and _tios_ just been givin' me shit 'bout Bonnie for the millionth time."

"Like Winston's got the right to give you shit 'bout nothin', amount of times he's taken Sylvia back." He stubs out the remainder of the joint on the bannister. "But can't say they don't have a point, either. She ain't shit, c'mon, you found that much out second you got outta the pen. Half the girls in here are drippin' for you, just pick a new _ruca_ already and be done with it."

He doesn't get it, he can't even begin to, though he isn't being a dick on purpose or anything— none of his relationships have been any deeper than fucking in the backseat of his truck. But Bonnie was my first everything, first date, first time, since we were still in junior high.

First broad I'd ever claimed to love and meant it.

* * *

I'm a couple of beers in when the devil herself, all five feet two inches of her, strolls into the joint. Never should've spoken her name out loud.

Bonnie Jacob. My ex. I can't believe she actually had the nerve to show up here, alone and not flanked by her entourage of girlfriends, but come to think of it, that kind of move is exactly her style. Roll up months after we split, pretend time healed all our wounds, and grab my arm like she owns it.

God, she looks as good as ever in her little red dress and heels, and my dick twitches without any input from my brain— the thought of bending her over crosses my mind, for old times' sake. Maybe she'd go for it, one last revenge fuck; maybe my tolerance is even lower than I feared. I refuse to acknowledge her as she saunters up to me, swaying her hips, don't want to give her the satisfaction.

"Come on, don't be like that." She pulls her Pall Mall out of her mouth, the filter gleaming with her spit and bright lipstick, lets it billow smoke up at the ceiling. "You still this pissed at me?"

"Where's _Clint_?" The name sounds like a piece of shrapnel sliding past my teeth, one I can't manage to bite down on. "You trade him in for a new model already, doll?"

"Can't we put this behind us, let bygones be bygones, all that shit?" She rolls her eyes, the way Angela does when she's in a particularly bratty mood. "We been together since the seventh grade, this really what you want to end it for good over? Some fuck that didn't even mean nothin' to me?"

"Do I look like Dallas?" I cross my arms over my chest and try to seem menacing and shifty, but I dig my nails into my biceps and I know she notices. "I look like I'm gonna take you back the way he keeps takin' back Sylvia? I told you, we're through, and _I_ sure meant _that_."

"I made a _mistake_—"

"Yeah, you tripped and his dick just fell into you, huh? I sure hate when that happens to me."

"Because you're just so fucking perfect, Tim." She blows smoke in my face. "Sorry I forgot."

I pull it out from between her fingers and crush it under my boot; her mouth falls into a perfect, shocked O. "You tell that brother of yours how things ended 'tween us? He know how much of a whore you are?" She sure didn't, judging by how he rolled up to kick my ass last August.

She laughs and sparks another one, fuck, with the carved lighter I gave her for her seventeenth birthday; she looks demonic, half-limned in the shadow from the flame. "Wow, you better be careful. Someone might think you got a heart for me to break."

I get real close to her face, because I want to make sure she hears every word. "Don't flatter yourself now. What's really grindin' my fucking gears is that you made me look a damn fool to the whole east side."

I got out of the pen in July, my mama picked me up in her shitty Corvair, and she didn't say two words to me 'til we'd damn near pulled into the driveway. _That broad of yours, Bonnie_— _I told you she was trouble, didn't I? You gonna listen to a word outta my mouth now?_

"And then you wonder why I was messin' around on you." A spark narrowly misses the sleeve of my leather jacket. "You're cold as a snake, the only thing you care about is your rep. Don't expect me to believe you ever loved me if you come cryin' later."

"Yeah, well, you was just a piece of ass," I say, but it's a petty, desperate lie I should be better than— my voice even cracks on it, like I'm thirteen again. "Only reason you stuck by me this long was to shack up with the biggest dealer on the block, ain't it?"

"Awh, Tim—" she smirks with those bright red lips, the kind of color you see on poisonous frogs in the Amazon— "you ain't shit without your uncles to pull the strings for you. Happy birthday, by the way." Before I can grab her, desperately angry and still half in love with her, she's already elbowed her way back into the crowd, and all I can do is gape like a goldfish at the surface of its bowl.

"That sounded rough."

I turn around and find another broad sitting on one of Buck's torn, come-stained couches like it's a leaking nuclear plant; she's my kind, Latina, and I have to wonder if Luis might've set her up. I'm embarrassed that she heard any of that, and I'd be tempted to pretend I hadn't noticed her if she wasn't so pretty.

"Nothin' I can't handle." I tilt my face a little, trying to shroud the scarred side in shadow; I look to see if she came here with any girlfriends, maybe a guy, but when I get back to her she's as alone and uncomfortable as ever. "You been around here before?" I'm praying she isn't one of my cousins.

Now she's the one scrutinizing me. "You're the birthday boy, right? I'm Gabriela Lopez— we had biology together, you were my lab partner."

I still don't remember her, then it hits me. "Shit, sorry I squirted pig blood into your hair," I mutter— I was a little asshole back when I was fourteen, worse than Curly, though I'm not about to tell him that.

"I'm over it, it's okay." She takes a sip of the murky mixed drink in her cup, then grimaces, like the only alcohol she's ever had before was communion wine. "You haven't been there since."

"Dropped out." Two years ago, to the day. _School is for fools, _ese_, you better get goin' on the rest of your life,_ Luis had said with a hard pat to my shoulder— principal wasn't exactly sad to see my back, considering the sheer amount of detentions, paddlings, and suspensions he'd handed out to me. "Had a lot of product to move, not a lot of time."

"That's too bad," she says, "you were a good student. I never would've stopped gettin' mitosis and meiosis mixed up without you."

A cord of muscle twitches in my jaw as long-buried memories resurface. Yeah, I'd been a good student, when I'd bothered to show, drove all my teachers batshit with it. _You've got so much _potential_, Timothy,_ Mr. Syme had clucked after he'd caught me with a copy of The Prince, _so why can't you ever apply an ounce of it to your schoolwork?_

I've always hated that word— potential. All my energy is kinetic.

"I don't go to Will Rogers anymore either," she adds while I brood. "My daddy sent me and my sister to Catholic school, Immaculate Heart. After that stabbing."

I sit down beside her on the couch, rotate my knee towards hers— she doesn't scoot away from me, a promising sign, and tilts her own until they touch. Doesn't look at me, though, tries to play it cool by twirling a lock of hair around her finger, but I know that one. I can work with it. "Why'd you show up tonight?" I ask, lowering my voice an octave.

She wrinkles her nose like she just smelled bad fish. "My sister Ximena, I always have to keep her in line. She knows your kid brother, she thought comin' here would help me get over my man. No idea where she's run off to now."

"Trust me, I get it, that brother's the _biggest_ pain in my ass." I cut my eyes over to the side of the room, where he's swilling another beer with some of his little friends and thinks I can't see. Kid's lucky I'm too busy right now to babysit. "You wouldn't believe— Lord, he once went through my wallet, stole my fake, and rolled 'round the streets piss-drunk. I had to pick him up from the station, I 'bout knocked his lights out."

I can't believe this is what's bringing us closer together. Usually at this stage, I'm either flexing my muscles or mentioning that I own a heater. "My sister Angela ain't no prize either," I add with an exaggerated eyeroll, "we used to get along real good, now she's gotten to junior high and I swear she's becoming some regular _salvaje— _everythin' I say goes in one ear and straight out the other. Ain't nothin' worse than bein' the oldest."

"Sounds like _my_ sister," she says with an equally scathing expression of her own, "I gotta sleep with one eye open every night, make sure she ain't sneakin' out the window to go party with the downtown boys. And who do you think our daddy's gonna blame if she's comin' home hungover? Me, 'cause I oughta have raised her better, that's who."

"Yeah, you wanna know suffering, try sharin' a room with Curly. Kid steals every Playboy from under my bed and then puts them back. _Sticky_."

Then I make a fatal mistake. I take another shot.

* * *

"That bitch... God, we were together for five years..." I wave my hands around like that'll demonstrate just how much of a bitch she is, and lurch forward, almost falling face-first into the table; she nods at me like Alberto's Jesus bobblehead when he's hit a pothole. "Five. Years. And what does she do once I'm in the reformatory for a few damn months? She goes and messes around with a Brumly boy. A _Brumly boy. _Over _me." _

I might've been able to forgive anything else— a King, a Tiger, hell, even one of the west side Socs— but that's barely a step above bestiality. They call a rumble _bop action, _for Chrissakes.

"You don't even wanna hear about my ex," she starts, downing another shot. "I love Jesus, but he took it to a whole new level, you have no idea. He had to stop and pray before we ever so much as— well, I mean, you know what I mean. He always told the priest everything we did at Confession, he felt so guilty."

"Uh-oh, Tim's _wasted_." Dallas nudges me hard in the ribs and gives me a nasty grin; I didn't even notice him approach. He was lit before he even arrived, and he's been drinking by the bucket ever since, but he's always been better at holding his liquor than me. "Hey, doll, try to get him to talk a straight sentence in Spanish now. I'll buy you a drink if you do it with his uncles around."

I could kill him, honestly, but I don't like tangling with Dally sober and especially don't like my chances three sheets to the wind. That's just his style, swooping in when I'm about to go for it, and I'm embarrassed to admit he's actually got a decent success rate. He's not handsome, with his rat's nest of blond hair and narrow, shifty eyes, he's not exactly charming or seductive either. He's just good at putting on his James Dean act, cites his long rap sheet— with crimes both real and imaginary— and that makes their panties wet. I settle for a hissed, "fuck off."

"Hey, hey—" he puts his hands up like he just dropped a weapon— "I'm leavin'. Consider it your birthday present."

"Do you wanna go upstairs?" I mutter into her hair once he's taken a goddamn hike. Before I can get things moving any further, she's crawled into my lap and started kissing me, fast and sloppy; I grab her waist to hold her steady, cup her ass with my other hand. If she keeps grinding on my crotch like this, I'm going to have a hell of a lot to answer for tomorrow morning, but right now, tomorrow morning is the last thing on my mind.

"Yeah." She takes her lips off the side of my neck long enough to say it. "Let's get outta here."

"Should we be doin' this?" My head spins like I just hopped off a tilt-a-whirl, and the tiniest scrap of rationality in my fool brain is telling me to slow down, remember where the hell I am. I'm not even sure if I have a—

Well, of course I have a condom in my back pocket, I went to the Luis Ramirez school of sex-ed. Wasn't entirely child-appropriate, or even a little, but he'd taught me enough to make sure I didn't have any kids of my own to fuck up.

"No," she says, and shifts off my lap to pull me towards one of Buck's bedrooms. "Definitely not."

* * *

After we've finished up, I roll over and try to light a cigarette, but I'm too drunk to strike a match and the first one doesn't take. I'm not much for pillow talk, haven't been with any of the broads I've fucked since Bonnie and I split— not enough of a jackass to make one walk herself home, either, but I've always been pretty quick to escort her back or book it.

"You gonna go now?" She sounds all forlorn, like a kid who lost her mama in the grocery store. I wonder if it was her first time, but she mentioned a boyfriend, so that can't be it. Maybe she's just the clingy type.

"Nah, don't worry, _nenita_, ain't goin' nowhere," I say and lie back down on the mattress, cringing as a broken spring juts into my shoulder. She rests her head on my chest, and part of me freezes up as she does it, but a bigger part kind of likes it, lets it happen.

"How'd you get your scar?" Her voice sounds like it's coming from a million miles away, though she's right up against me; then she blushes, all embarrassed. We're at that uncomfortable level of intimacy where we've shared some key details about our lives and then fucked, but we still only met a few hours ago. "Sorry, I mean, that's none of my business— but it looks like it hurt."

_You could say that. _It takes a couple seconds for the story I've rehearsed to enter my head, the details scrambled and vague, a cold, crystallized feeling in the pit of my stomach as she looks at me expectantly.

"I was tryna sell grass to this homeless sonuvabitch, he wouldn't pay up as much as he owed me, shit got ugly." The lie, thank God, smoothly flows off my tongue as I run my fingers through her hair. "I mean, I won, baby, don't get me wrong, but not before he could pull his switch out. I'm lucky to be alive."

She eats it up, makes a soft cooing noise I associate with women around babies or blackbirds with torn wings, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Because I'm not going to tell anyone how I really got that scar. Ain't my story to tell.

* * *

I told myself I wouldn't post a new WIP until I finished The Butterfly Effect.

I've since learned the importance of setting realistic goals.


	2. Family Ties

When I wake up again, the sunlight streaming through the dirty window feels like a knife stabbing me straight in the eyeball. Doesn't help that I'm about to vomit everything I've eaten for the past week, either.

"Well, lookit what the cat dragged in, huh?"

Alberto grins at me like he's real hot shit; I roll over onto the side of my head that's pounding, as though that'll give me some relief. "Wild night?" he asks, his bad attitude playing on his lips.

"_Vato_, shut _up_." I wouldn't dare talk to Luis like that, but I've always managed to get along better with Alberto, even though he's a downright crazy motherfucker— he never tries to act like he's my daddy, got Luis off my back a few times when he really lost his temper at me. He just elbows me, and I fight the urge to puke all over his dirty sheets. "How'd I end up here?"

"Figured I oughta drag your sorry ass home before Buck harvested your organs." He sits down on the edge of the bed and sparks a blunt; I about strangle him once the smell of the smoke hits me. "You need one of Luis's lectures 'bout how you can't give an alibi if you're too hammered to remember where you was, or you good?"

"Yeah, I think I'm good," I say with a little more attitude than he deserves. Luis can't decide whether he's my old man, my gang leader, or an older _primo_ who claims I'll like smack if I just wrap a tourniquet around my arm and give it a shot. I'd be fine with the last two if he called it a day on the first one.

"Heard you was gettin' a lil' busy— all right, saw it myself," he says with a rough chuckle, like he smoked a pack before letting it out. "Must've been some real wild _hyna_ between the sheets, if she was grindin' on your lap in front of God and everybody, huh?"

I've never been much of one for bull sessions— that's for kids Curly's age, half of them lying through their teeth anyway— and I especially ain't in the mood for one with Alberto, who's claimed to my face he's been with three broads at once. "She was a nice girl," is all I say, "Catholic, had a cross around her neck and everything. Don't talk dirty 'bout her."

"Ain't no such thing as a _nice Catholic girl_, haven't you ever seen a porno?" I have, actually. "You get them outta the convent, they'll be on you like a Vegas stripper the night before rent's due."

I give him a dismissive scowl and roll back over onto my other side, hoping that facing the wall will be enough to get him off me, but Alberto's like a feral dog on my leg. "She a Salvi or somethin'?" he asks too casually for a man throwing around ethnic slurs. "Didn't look like the Little Juárez type, she's real dark."

"Don't call her that, either."

"Hey, it's only Luis that's gonna get his panties in a bunch, relax." He rises to go check on one of the marijuana plants he has growing on the windowsill. "So long's she's not another white girl, I'm cool with it. Break my fuckin' heart if you married a gringa, _mijo, _his too."

Bonnie's an Irish girl like my mama, the same kind of dark that makes her pass if you don't look at her too hard, but Luis and Alberto never liked her from the start. Said I'd inherited my daddy's weakness, that she'd run around on me the second my back was turned long enough, and their smugness was damn _unbearable _when she ended up doing it. Yet another reason why what she did sticks around like something in my teeth.

"She wasn't one of us," he says, touching the blades of the plant more tenderly than he'd ever touched me. "Never would've been. Glad you're movin' on to the right kind."

"What about me?" comes out of my mouth before I can stop myself.

"_Qué_?" He's only half-listening at best, checking for any rot and yellowness that might ruin the product.

"My mama's gringa, ain't she?" It's a dumb rhetorical question; I've heard them call her as much, and wilder, about a million times before. "Am _I _one of you?"

"_Burro_, you're Ramirez through and through," he says with a fist knocked against the back of my head, "don't say stupid shit like that. Your daddy was thinkin' with his dick, is all. But you better not start makin' no white babies."

My stomach does an unpleasant lurch as I see just how much sunlight is coming in through that window, and for once not from the booze. "What time is it?"

Alberto looks down at the Rolex Tia Mercedes's kingpin husband threw in his direction. "Almost noon, why? You got somewhere to be?"

"_Hijo de puta_— yeah, a meeting with my PO, that's where." I keep cussing under my breath as I spring out of bed, clutch my skull and regret it, and try to find where the hell either I or Alberto tossed my pants. "Comin' in late, that's sure provin' how bad I don't wanna go back to prison."

"Wait, wait, hold up." He grabs my arm before I can dart straight out the door. "You can't show up there lookin' a hot mess, c'mon. I got a clip-on tie in a drawer somewhere."

* * *

The office smells like pine air freshener, like someone's tried real hard to clean up after all the greasy hoods inside. I caught up with a couple of my regular customers in the waiting room, so at least I can't say today has been a total waste.

"I've heard a lot from your previous probation officer, and I wouldn't call most of it good," my new handler says, shuffling through the stack of papers in the SHEPARD, TIMOTHY file; it's impressively thick, except for once, I'm not so impressed by its contents. "Seems you can't go longer than six months without running into some kind of trouble with the law."

"Maybe I just like livin' on the edge," I say, and then immediately cringe— funny how for all of Dally's shit-talking on the outside, he's always getting time off for good behavior, and I can keep it zipped except when I need to most.

I expect some remark about how I'm going to die in prison, but instead he steeples his fingers, studies my face like he'll have to draw it from memory later. "Let's talk about your family life for a moment. When I spoke to her, your social worker was very concerned."

"Everything's fine," I say, on reflex, but vines of anxiety wrap around my intestines as I do. The lie never becomes much easier, no matter how many times I tell it.

"Really?" He raises his eyebrow and maintains a maddeningly neutral game face. "Because from her… let me tell you, _vivid_ descriptions, your mother is a neglectful alcoholic, your father's been dead for years, and you've been caring for your two younger siblings alone since you were very young, that's all in her reports—"

"I ain't _alone_, I got uncles, they're around." Damn that old bitch, always sticking her nose in our business since Curly first went inside, looking down at how we live. And damn him too, he has a hell of a lot of nerve, shooting his mouth off about us like that. "Had plenty of 'uncles' too, if you catch my drift."

His eyebrow still won't come down. "We got a whole separate file on the Ramirez brothers, trust me, I'm well aware of who they are. I'm worried you ain't in the best environment to avoid parole violations, 'specially since your entire family on your daddy's side is known felons."

"So what are you gonna deduce from this, huh?" I put a foot up on the desk, which my last PO probably would've sent me back inside for. "'Cause I heard it all, trust me. We're victims of a dysfunctional environment, of systemic poverty, of just plain ol' bein' spics—"

"I think Officer Jones was right about you," he says mildly, "you might be a JD who dropped out of tenth grade, but you're brilliant."

"Don't try to sweet-talk me like you're tryna get me into bed, Officer Jones ain't had a nice word to say 'bout me for the past five years." Me? Brilliant? All I can remember is Gabi telling me I'm some fucking genius for knowing how cells divide. Smartest thing I ever did was drop out.

"He told me you were quoting Machiavelli when you were fifteen to try to justify your asinine behavior." The corner of his mouth turns up. "He also said the only decent thing 'bout you is how much you care about your little brother, but I'm not sure if I buy that."

"Excuse me?" If he wasn't one of Tulsa's finest, I would've flattened him in a second. As it is, I just grind my teeth hard enough to file them down.

"He's fourteen and already been locked up twice." The SHEPARD, CARLOS file isn't nearly as thick as mine, but Curls is three years younger and catching up fast. "In his own words, you've encouraged quite a bit of that delinquency."

"I keep my brother in line." I clutch the armrests so hard I'm afraid I'll tear them off. "Ain't my fault he don't listen to me and gets himself mixed up with the law." I tell him to be careful, watch his back in fights, not drink too much booze, not run that big mouth of his all over creation. What the hell else am I supposed to do, tie him to his bed at night?

He crosses his legs and leans back like I'm a fish he's just hooked, flopping around helplessly. "Have you ever thought that being his gang leader might have somethin' to do with that?"

"I ain't eleven no more, sittin' at the school counselor's, talkin' bout my dead daddy." _Count to ten, get control of that temper before you do somethin' stupid_, Papá always told me— he never had any patience for fights in the schoolyard or shit like that, snapping his belt out the second he thought I was losing my cool. Funny how he died at thirty-two and I'm still here. "I been followin' my probation, I don't get high, I don't associate with known felons—"

"Apart from your own family members," he says again, and he's got me there. "I'm not just tryin' to ride your ass, Tim, it's not in my best interest to see you go back inside. I doubt you'd enjoy Big Mac more than you've enjoyed juvie."

"Probably won't." I stare at the clock behind his head, watching the second hand tick-tick-tick its way to when I'll be free. "So how you want to rehabilitate me? I already tried picking trash up off the highway."

"Have you ever had a job before?"

* * *

When Ma's waiting for me at the door with one of Ed's old belts clutched in her fist, I know I'm not headed for my bed any time soon. "You get in here and whoop your brother." She crooks her index finger at me. "Them kids been drivin' me up the wall all day, and where you at? Up to no good, I bet, you always are."

"I had to meet with my new PO, Ma, don't start givin' me shit." Happy belated birthday to me, huh? "Why can't you handle it? He's _your _damn son."

"He just laughs at me, that's why." I'm surprised to hear it; last I checked, his strategy was to burst into fake tears two blows in and start praying for Jesus to take the sin from his heart, and she'd always eaten it right up. "You're the only one he ever listens to."

"I don't have time for this, whatever he pulled." I try to elbow my way past her, but don't end up having the balls. "I'm goin' back to bed."

She sniffs at me like she's just smelled a pile of shit. "Are you _hungover_?"

"Are you?" _You really wanna go down this rabbit hole?_

"_Hijo perdido—" _She runs her hand down her face. "I don't need social services sniffin' around here any more, whenever he cuts school, I got that snotty little…" She cuts herself off before she can cuss, but it's a close thing. "It's your fault he's like this, he hangs off every word you say. _You_ handle it."

I'm too tired to fight with her any longer— the two of us can get real vicious, snarl at each other like pitbulls in a ring and go for the throat, but I just grab the belt out of her fist. Better I deal with Curly if she's got a few drinks in her. "You owe me," I remind her, "you owe me for all this shit—"

_One day, I might come to collect,_ I want to say, but I don't bother. She's already grabbed a bottle of whiskey off the coffee table, unscrewed the cap, put it up to her lips. She's not listening.

"Curly—" I fling our bedroom door open for dramatic effect— "I'm hungover as shit, I had to listen to my PO _talk_ shit at me for the last hour, I swear I'm actually gonna smack you up this time."

He gives me his best contrite face, but I'm not having it, his acting never works on me the way it manages to charm everyone else. "C'mon, just wanted to start the weekend a little early, is all—"

"What'd you sneak out for, huh?" I sigh about as loud as when Ma's trying to get Angel to do the dishes. "_Vato_, if I can't trust you to sit your ass at a desk when you're supposed to, I ain't boutta trust you with your own corner. You ever wanna see the inside of a high school?"

"_You _dropped out when you was sixteen, didn't you?"

He's got me there, and it's why I've never pushed the kids that hard about graduating— to be honest, I'm not even sure why I want them to in the first place, like Curly's ever gonna be anything but a gangbanger. He had to repeat seventh grade because he didn't learn shit in juvie, and probably would've had to without being locked up. I settle for, "High school's a helluva lot more fun than junior high, better broads, better fights. You didn't answer the damn question."

"Tios told me to meet them out by the chainlink fence, after lunch. Wanted me to watch a deal go down with the Kings."

I scrutinize him. Kid's a good liar, all of us Shepards are, but he's not quite meeting my eyes. Not to mention that if I cared enough to verify his story with them, I could easily prove it false. "Ain't in the mood to deal with anythin' but the truth right now, Christ, don't drag this out."

"Don't lose your shit at me." He shifts uncomfortably on his beat-up mattress. "Ain't your business, anyway."

"You think you get to tell me what I can or can't lose my shit about?" I'm tired of playing games with this little asshole. "I'll beat it outta you in the next three seconds."

It's an empty threat, I don't have the stomach to hit them unless Ma's standing over me with her arms crossed, but he still eyes the belt warily and I can't feel too guilty about it. "_Fine_." He twists a handful of the sheets up in his fist. "I was with my dad, happy?"

I'm the furthest thing from happy, but what comes up my throat is the sour taste of jealousy, like when you start to spew. "Your dad don't want nothin' to do with you. Least that's why I thought we egged his house."

_You ain't even my real brother, so why don't you just fuck off?_ My gaze drops to his left arm, it's still a little weak even months after the cast came off. If I hadn't decided to get into a pissing match with a fourteen-year-old, he never would've climbed that telephone pole.

"Yeah, well, maybe he changed his mind— I mean, damn, I showed up at his door for the first time in years and told him I was his son, what was he supposed to do?"

"He knew." My throat is tight like it's been squeezed by a giant fist. "He knew your whole life, don't fucking kid yourself, he let Ma take you home 'cause he didn't want any part of it. What'd he tell you, huh?"

"That he was sorry." He picks at a hole in the sheet now, his leg bouncing up and down like he's taken a handful of reds. "He drove me out to a diner… he says he wishes he could've gotten to know me."

"You sound like a hooker," I say, and it's the kind of remark I usually reserve for the biggest problems in the gang, not Curly. "He bought you a meal and told you some bullshit to make himself feel less guilty, now you wanna forget all the shit he did? The shit he said?"

He looks up and his voice gets all sharp, bolder than I thought he could be with me. "Get off my back."

I got enough brains even with a tenth grade education to figure out that I'm just making him more appealing— so I give up and shrug, toss the belt onto my own bed. "You do what you want, _vato," _I say, but my voice is stupid choked and I know he can tell I'm not being genuine.

Maybe if I say it enough times, I'll at least be able to believe myself.

* * *

I'm blaring a Stones record and smoking a joint when I hear a rap at the door; my first reaction is to pretend none of us are home, like I usually do when a bill collector or one of our less savory _primos_ rolls up, but it's persistent and sounds like a broad's fist. That's how I find Gabi Lopez on my porch.

"… Hey," I say, and run a hand through my hair. She looks different than she did that night, minimal makeup on, wearing a plaid school skirt, but she's still pretty enough she's got me flustered. "What are you doin' here?"

It's way too soon for her to suspect she's knocked up with my kid, but those Catholic girls, all the sex ed they get at home is not to do it. I don't know what crazy thoughts she might have going through her head, but I can already hear Luis's sage advice.

"You left your wallet at Buck's, the other night." She pulls it out from her purse, and I blush; God, it's a damn good thing Luis didn't hear about any of this, or he'd really hand me my ass on a platter. "I guess you must've dropped it— figured you'd want it back."

"How'd you know where to find me?"

"Says where you live on your license. I didn't even think you'd have one."

Well, Dallas sure doesn't, a decent amount of hoods I know just learned from an older brother or cousin, but I like to have one on file in case shit hits the fan— if you're driving around something illegal, five-o gets a hell of a lot more interested in poking around if you can't even show license and registration. I don't tell her that, though, just snatch it from between her fingers. "Thanks— I'll see you around, yeah?"

I don't mean it to sound half as desperate as it comes out, but she still deigns to give me half of a smile before she pivots off my welcome mat. "Yeah, Tim, maybe," she says cagily, and walks away before I can say anything else.

"That your new girlfriend?" Angela's approached me with her usual quiet footsteps, digging her freshly-painted toes into our cheap carpet. "You could've walked her home, Romeo."

I went to the joint in February and my tomboy kid sister turned into a north side _chola_ while I was gone, all teased hair, skirts that make Ma cluck when she comes out for breakfast, and a brand new attitude to go with the whole ensemble. I tell her just how much I hate it every day and twice on Sundays, but she's not so interested in listening to me as she used to be.

"Mind your business, _chismosa_." I brush the back of her head with my palm, the gesture far too light to be called a slap. "She ain't my nothin', she's just a broad I know, is all."

"In the Biblical kinda way?"

The next slap is definitely hard enough she can feel it. "Ain't you got homework to be doin' or somethin'?"

She shoots me a withering look, then brightens again. "It's _Friday_. I'm goin' out with my girls."

I don't scold her half as much as I should, really, or ask where she's headed. It's the most I've seen her smile about in months.


	3. Speed

It's been... a while, huh? Damn, how is everyone?

* * *

When I reach the curb outside my house and find the leader of the Kings sitting in his car, windows down, system up, I about shit myself. That's the kind of scene you see before you take three to the chest.

"This ain't your territory," I say, settling my face back into its usual cool mask; I grasp around my pockets for the handle of my switchblade, just in case. "You're a little... far from the river, ain't you?"

Joe sticks his neck out the window, jerks his thumb at me— I'm not nearly stupid enough to flip him the bird, or yell something rude in response. He might be on my turf, but Bonnie was right, as loath as I am to admit it— I ain't shit without my uncles around to vouch for me. "Shepard, c'mere, I wanna talk to you."

Kings and Tigers have been enemies since the dawn of time, and Ramirez, we've kind of just been staying out of it and playing both sides— keeping control of the north side, letting them pump each other full of lead over the east. I don't know what the hell he wants from me, or why he showed up here instead of approaching my tíos, but there's a nasty twist in my guts as I approach the car.

"Rumor has it you're sleepin' with one of my girls," he says once I've sunk my ass into his leather seat, been blasted in the face by his heating system. "That true?"

"I ain't been sleepin' with none of _your girls_." I try to keep the sneer off my face as I say it, probably not very well— he runs whorehouses down the east, it makes me sick if I think about it for too long. I'm no innocent, I've done a lot of things that'll send me to hell and my uncles are worse, but at least I have enough of a conscience not to get into the pimping business. "I would've paid, anyway, even if I had—"

"I'm not talking 'bout my working girls." He moves towards his pocket like he's about to pull out a joint, then removes a baggie of white powder instead. "Gabi Lopez— heard you and her had a thing goin', few nights ago."

Jesus fucking Christ, does everyone in town know and care about who I'm sleeping with? "She ain't one of yours, she's Chicana—"

"Colombian, she's from Bogotá." He's just spreading out a line on his dash, dividing the powder with his car key, okay, that's what's happening— I'll admit it right now, I've only seen the stuff once or twice, much less snorted it. "And I ain't senile, last I checked— her brother's in my crew. What you got goin' on with her, huh?"

"What are you doin' with him anyway?"

I actually don't mean to have an attitude, for once— gangs in Tulsa don't go as far as being literally segregated, but it's pretty much so, when you look at the composition. Kings are white, Tigers are Native, Ramirez is Latino. Still sounds like one, though, and his sniff is downright angry before he turns to face me again.

"Ain't your business, what makes you think it is?" His eyes have always unnerved me, pale blue and bulging, like a fish's. He looks something like Dallas, except maybe if Winston's soul had been sucked out with a vacuum cleaner first. Then he laughs, like the coke's finally gone from his nose to his brain. "He thought he'd have better luck with our outfit than yours, he ain't Mexican. I ain't about to DP him, don't start stickin' your hands out."

Despite what I might want to say, Luis taught me enough politics to keep my head, and being accused of sleeping with another man's girl— no matter how loose the relationship— isn't the kind of situation where you want to value your pride over your life. "I'm sorry, man," I say, throwing my hands up to show I don't have a weapon in them, at least not now. "Nothin's goin' down no more, I swear. I didn't realize she was one of yours."

Just my luck. First girl I've laid hands on in months, and I've got a coked-up loon with a piece rolling up to my place, all to tell me I'd better never get near her again. Her ex is probably one of his equally-creepy boys, put heat on Joe himself to go down here and threaten me straight.

Joe laughs again and puts a hand on my shoulder, like we're _primos_ or some shit and this was all some big misunderstanding. "You know what, you want her, maybe you can have her. I'll give her to you, how 'bout, it'll be a marriage of convenience."

"I don't have time to play games with you, okay?" If I fling the door open now, while he's busy snickering like he's watching The Tonight Show, I might be able to run fast enough to get away from him— but for how long? How far could I get before he caught up with me? "The hell are you even talkin' about?"

Not to mention how slimy my insides feel at the thought of him giving me anyone as a prize, never knowing if she really wants to be with me or if he held a gun up to her head first, said she better make me happy.

"Tigers been sneakin' into my territory more than usual— they're shit," he says with a feral dog's snarl, harsh enough to snap the back of my neck into the metal bars of the headrest. "They want to exterminate us because they fear us."

A Tiger shot my cousin up a few years back, when we were thirteen. We don't have a blood feud with them, but it came pretty close.

He smiles at me like his outburst didn't happen, all toothpaste commercial white teeth, but it still doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You ever snorted anything like this before?"

"A couple times, maybe I did," I automatically say, not about to look naive in front of him. "Ain't my kind of kicks."

"You ain't much of a liar, you show everything on your face, anybody ever tell you that?" He separates another line, scoops a little from it up with his nail and sticks it inside his nostril. "It's gonna blow your mind wide open."

* * *

My heart pounds against the wall of my chest like a swarm of bees struggling to break out— I press two fingers up to where my carotid artery pulses in my neck, cringe and pull them away when I get too conscious of the fact that I'm alive. "I feel good," I say for what must be about the millionth time. Either Joe is really flooring it, or the world's started spinning around on its axis a hell of a lot faster than it ever did before. I wonder if he cut that coke with something else, but I don't have the attention span to keep chasing that train of thought. "You think Lennon's tryna talk to us?"

"Yeah," he says in a patient voice as he turns down the radio, "I'm sure he was sendin' a real profound message out to the people with Twist and Shout." I nod along to everything he's saying, until I realize he's full of shit and he's driven me all the way over to my uncles' apartment building— the one where Alberto's fucking the super, so she'll ignore the sheer amount of electricity they use to grow their weed stash.

Luis is smoking as we roll up, and the second he clocks me stumbling out of the front seat, he doesn't look too happy about what he sees— not that that's so different from how he usually is, whenever he sees that I don't have Curly in tow. "The fuck did you do to him, huh, hit him over the head with a crowbar?" He flicks ash off the tip of his weed. "He ain't no use to me if he's hammered out of his mind, he's never been."

"I ain't no _use_?" Everything seems irritating to me, the crunch of the concrete under the soles of my shoes, the brightness of the sun, especially the nasal intonation of his voice. "Why don't we go right now, you can see just how useful I am—"

"You really feelin' brave tonight, _compa_, huh?" He raises a hand, but he's not about to smack me up, not when he's got a much more convenient target to go after. "What'd you _give_ him, I ain't playin' with you, c'mon, it was obviously uppers—"

"Coke." Joe gives him a casual shrug, like he's got nothing to apologize for and never will. "Wanted to sweeten the pot a little, you know."

"Jesus, I told you to _talk _to him, maybe give him a couple shots, not waste him this bad." He crushes his cigarette butt with the heel of his boot. "He's seventeen, come _on._"

"Eighteen," I feel the need to cut in. "I turned eighteen last week. You was _there_."

"Oh, eighteen last week, ain't you a big man now." Sometimes I really fucking hate him. "I'm gonna have a real problem with this lil' alliance if you give anything to Curly."

"All right, I wasn't planning on nothin' like that, it's all good," Joe says, his arms up in a mock surrender, backing away towards his car again, but nobody with a couple of brain cells to rub together would trust the malice playing at the edges of his lips. "You want me to go?"

"Yeah, maybe you should." Luis is just messing with him, though, he's not as angry as he's pretending to be, or he would've raised his piece. "C'mon, use your head every once in a while. My brother's dead, they practically my kids now. You don't get to screw with them like they're your new recruits from the boys' home."

Joe flashes a grin at him before he revs the Chevy up again, and Luis grabs my chin, drags me over to the foyer. "Your pupils blown to all hell... you retarded or somethin', why'd you take shit he gave you?"

"He _gave_ it to me, didn't he?" I try to jerk away from him, but he's mopping at the drool on my face anyway. "This ain't your business, Jesus, you been tryna give me smack since I was Curly's age."

"Smack don't do nothin'," he says with a wave of his hand, "just makes you real sleepy, is all. You have any idea how many morons I've seen practically kill a man after they snort too much? See, you already got an attitude with me."

"Ain't got no fucking attitude."

"You got your mama's tolerance." He gives me a hard slap to the side of the head, too fast for me to dodge. "None at fucking _all_. Got her mouth, too. I never liked that."

I sit down on one of the concrete blocks outside the door, cross my arms over my chest and try to pretend I'm not pouting. "Yeah, maybe."

He lets a hard puff of air leave his nostrils and form a cloud in the frosty air outside, probably cusses under his breath for the millionth time that I'm not Curly, don't treat every word that comes out of his mouth like God giving Moses instructions. "How'd shit go with your PO?"

"Bad." I'm not about to admit everything he said, just trickle enough truth Luis's way that he'll believe I'm telling it all. It's a skill I've honed to an art over the years. "They gave me a new one now that I'm legal, he's crawlin' up my ass, tryna make me get a job. Legit one, on the record."

"They all want you to get a job," he says boredly, "that's _their_ job. Relax, ain't boutta send you down to the unemployment office; I'll just put you at the front of the bar, couple nights a week. Keeps our money clean, keeps us employed when they ask, it's a win-win."

"That all you wanted to say?" I shake my head out, try clear it up, but I have a million thoughts running through it at once; it's like I can't sit still, like I've smoked a thousand cigarettes in a row and followed that with a shot of espresso. "Since when are we all friendly with Kings? What's goin' on with that, huh?"

"Nah, there's somethin' else I wanna say." He grins at me. "Heard you got yourself a new girlfriend, _carnal_."

* * *

I'm trying to cook something that resembles soup when the Curtis clan rolls up in my business— yeah, me. I know it's women's work, that I should pawn it off on Angela, but she can't make anything edible and it's been my job since we were kids. If I didn't cook and Ma was on a bender, we didn't eat.

The door was unlocked, and suddenly there's a girl in the middle of the kitchen as I cuss at the congealed potato-leek-whatever I have in the pot— I stare at her for a couple of seconds before I figure out who she is. I haven't seen her since she was nine or ten, when Darry and I ended up on the outs for good. "Jasmine?" I can't hide the surprise in my voice. "Somethin' happen?"

"Is Ponyboy here?" She's got a real cute outfit on— not that _I'm _into her, I don't think she's any older than fourteen, but Curly's got one helluva crush on her. "My mama's pissed, he was s'pposed to be home hours ago— she told me to go get him from the library, but c'mon, I know he ain't that innocent."

"He better not be here," I say, but I have the uncanny suspicion he and Curly are up to no good— Curly never is. "Hey—" I turn the burner off and stalk down the hall— "you invite any guests over, _mano_?"

He opens the door to our room just a crack, but I can smell the grass even before I see Ponyboy sprawled out on my bed, joint in hand. "Jas, what the hell?" he squawks. "What are you doin' here?"

"Now what'd Dad say?" She's got that smug older sibling smirk on her face, and she drops her voice about three octaves. "_Ponyboy Curtis, if I catch you hangin' out in them streets with that Shepard kid again, doin' whatever the hell you wanna do, I'm gonna whoop you straight into–_"

"We ain't in the streets," he manages to sputter out weakly, "we're in the house, ain't we?"

"You're _literally_ holdin' a joint right now."

"_My_ joint." I grab Curly by the ear; he hollers and tries to get loose, but I don't let up. "How many times I gotta tell you little assholes you can't just smoke up from my stash, huh? That shit's to sell, I ain't boutta tell you again."

"Like you ain't smokin' up out of it—"

"Barely." He's actually got me there, our uncles would have my ass on a platter if they knew I was smoking up any of their precious profits, but, well. First of all, I'm smarter than Curly. Second of all, as hard as Luis pushed _never get high on your own supply_ on me, I've seen those two shoot up way too many times to take them seriously. "And when I don't, I ain't bringin' that Curtis kid over here."

"Yeah, you wanna tell Mom," Ponyboy says to Jasmine, they've been having World War Three while I've been busy reaming out my own brother, "maybe I'll tell her you said you was goin' to sleep over with Sylvia, and y'all really went to her brother's daddy's house to—"

She tries to fly at him with her sharp nails, and I grab her by the tail of her blouse before she can claw his face off, as entertaining as that might be. The Curtis girl, I make the unpleasant prediction, she's going to be hell on wheels in the next couple years, if that. Sleeping over with Nate, that's already convinced me.

"You ain't walking yourselves home," I say reluctantly, already fumbling around for my car keys on the top of my dresser, "not in the dark. C'mon, I'll take you."

* * *

I haven't seen Darrel Curtis in a few years, not since Darry decided he didn't want nothing to do with me. I still don't know what went down between him and Luis, except that _he_ doesn't know that Luis was fucking his wife while he was inside, and if I ever tell him, Luis is gonna cut my tongue out personally.

"Where the hell you been, huh?" he says at Ponyboy as I lead him up the porch. You could drive a truck through the hole at the bottom of his shirt, yellowed and stained with plaster; he's giving the kid a death glare, but he just glares right back at him, and I have to admire the youngest Curtis's balls the tiniest bit. "You turn thirteen, you think you can just come an' go whenever you please like some kinda alley cat?"

"Awh, c'mon, I just lost track of time at the library—"

"Uh-huh," he snorts, "smellin' like skunk, with _him_ escortin' you home, you was at the library. 'Cause your ol' Dad was born yesterday, I guess. Git in here."

"You smoke grass with Darry, don't you?" that little dumbass just keeps going. I sort of stare at the moths fluttering around the light to avoid facing the secondhand embarrassment of listening to this; Jasmine had the good sense to dart inside before she had to bear witness. "I seen you two out on the porch after Mom's in bed—"

He stoops to his level and puts his hands on his thighs. "You want me to smack you up in front of God and everybody right now? 'Cause I'm gettin' real tempted."

Ponyboy takes a hint and scurries inside, and I laugh a little, in spite of myself, once he's closed the door. "He got you there."

"I don't want my boy over at your place no more, you hear me?" He crosses his arms over his chest in a way he probably thinks looks real intimidating. "I ain't havin' it, him gettin' high over there without any supervision."

He's not really wrong in what he's saying, I'm not sure I'd want any son of mine smoking up with Curly on a regular basis, but I've got enough family pride in me to bristle at the backhanded insult. "Oh, so he's too good for my brother now, huh? He's goin' places?" I kick at the boards beneath my feet. "Trust me, I don't want Curly hanging 'round him either. The queer might rub off on him."

"You ever thought _you_ could go places?" Here we fucking go. "You're real smart, Tim, I seen you and Darry do homework together enough times—"

"_I know what I am_." Count to ten, _burro_, get control of that temper, my daddy says in the back of my mind, but something about this entire situation is making me run my mouth like Dallas after one too many shots. "I'm a _spic,_ man, I wasn't exactly fixin' to go to college and become some middle manager. I earn good money."

He snorts, it's a real condescending snort too, and I wonder if that's what Dally hears every time this man's got to bail him out of the pen. "You think you're so wise, don't you?" I've about had my fill of this from Luis, I should just stroll away from him, but he has me fixed to where I'm standing. "You know everything about the world already? Honey, you don't know _shit_. And you 'specially ain't gonna be young forever."

"I saw my cousin get gunned down in front of me when we was thirteen," I say in the sweet voice I reserve for my social worker, like we're just as wholesome and American as apple pie. "Got sprayed with the blood from his brains bein' blown out, too. Go ahead, tell me some stories 'bout how bad it can get 'round here."

It's a voice I normally keep real even. I've told a fair few people, even members of my gang, to shock them straight, like Santi was some stranger I'd watched die; it's all business, that metaphor. Except it cracks on the last syllable, no matter how hard I try to stay cool and calm.

"Your PO, he askin' you to get a job?" I gape at him; he shakes his head at me. "Mine sure as hell did, when I first got out. They stay scrutinizin' you a lot less, if you get a legitimate one, I'm just sayin'."

"I don't need your charity," I scoff as loudly as I dare, and turn to walk away from this. "But thanks."

"It ain't no charity," Darrel says sharply enough to stop me in my tracks, "I'd be puttin' my own rep on the line to recommend you, so you better actually show up. Why don't you trust me, honey, a real job is gonna look better to him than washin' dishes at wherever your uncles are launderin' money."

"Yeah, at your construction firm, the one that pays ex-cons in cash?" I rub my arms and wish I'd worn a sweatshirt, but I hadn't expected to be outside of my heated truck for this long. "That's a real blessing, all right."

"Think about it," he says simply. "Darry—"

"Don't talk to me about Darry." I try to make this an authoritative sentence, and instead my voice breaks like a wave on it. "Your kid wanted to pretend he's a Soc all of a sudden, that's his business, that ain't none of mine. And guess none of us ended up leaving the hood after all, Boy of the Year or not."

I head over to the driveway and crank my key right into the ignition, before I start believing him.


	4. Pride Comes

I'm a week into my bartending gig when I first start contemplating suicide.

"For the last time, I'm cuttin' you off, I don't give two shits _how_ we're related." I swear this _is_ actually one of my cousins, though I can't remember who, Julio or Julián or something else, but my point still stands— I refuse to keep supplying him until he starts throwing bottles around. "You can't even walk in a straight line."

"Your ma's a whore with a fat ass, anyone ever tell you that?" I've called her worse myself. "_Pinche pendejo_, come on, one more shot—"

"Get out or I'll kick you out," I say like it doesn't make a difference to me either way, though I'm hoping it doesn't escalate there. Brandish the towel in my hand at him, too, like that'll make me look more intimidating than some eighteen-year-old kid up against my... _second_ cousin, who's definitely killed someone before, judging by the teardrop under his eye.

He tips over two chairs and mimes throwing one of his empty glasses at me, but he finally heads out the door after flipping me the bird, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. This job might become slightly more tolerable if I could drink on it— and I'm close to sticking my head under a tap when, just my luck, Luis strolls into the establishment.

He's got yet another broad on his arm, in a little black dress that's too short for the weather— I don't ever bother to learn their names, it's a waste of my mental energy to keep track of every Rosita and Gloria he brings around. He hasn't had a serious relationship since he ended things with his second baby mama. "I'll just take a Modelo," he says, settling himself in a stool in front of the bar, "and the lady wants a tequila sunrise, don't you, _querida_?"

Judging by the soppy, lovestruck expression on her face, she wouldn't have objected to him ordering her a glass of liquid shit. I don't have the heart to tell her that he goes through eighteen and nineteen-year-old girls like underwear; barely notice her at all, in fact, when I turn to my uncle. "How's the job going?" he asks with a smirk. "You enjoying the company?"

"Please." I'm not above begging. At this point, I'm not above getting on my knees, though I lean across the bar and move closer to his ear, don't need to be making a scene in here. "I'll dig ditches. I'll scrub toilets. But this is too much. All these _cabrones_ are a million times worse drunk."

"You know what your problem is?" Oh, I just can't wait to hear it. "You're real smart, I'll give you that much, you got a good head for strategy and all that shit." I brace myself for what's coming down the pike— all of Luis's compliments have a little backhanded slap somewhere. "But people just don't _like_ you. You got all the charm and charisma of a raccoon that's been run over by a semi."

"I love you too, _tio_. Our relationship really just warms my fucking heart."

"What can I say, Timmy, I'm tryna teach you a valuable life lesson here." He smirks at me again, like he's got all the time in the world. "Now, I'm not so sure about this drink. Think Carmen wants a little more ice."

Gun to the head is the quickest method, right? Maybe I'll take him out first.

* * *

When Rafa pulls up outside the dive at the end of my shift, he might as well be the angel Gabriel to me. "You need a ride?" He grins as he shoves his head out the window of the driver's seat, shakes a bottle of Jim Beam at me; I accept it gladly as I slide in, take a larger sip than I should. Great, a week spent working at that goddamn speakeasy, and I'm starting to develop about the only vice I didn't have before— a drinking problem. "Maybe we oughta hit up a place where you're on the other side of the counter."

"Just get me out of here," I mutter— I should know better than to hop into a car with Rafa, who's fumbling to even turn the key in the ignition, but I'm desperate enough that I'd hoof it. "Let's get off the whole Ribbon. Go to the Dingo or some shit."

The Dingo is your typical drive-in on the east side of town, by which I mean, you got about three Mexican hitchhikers there at once and the possibility of a knife fight to bet on whenever. It's exactly the kind of joint I want to hit up by the time we somehow make it there alive, a solid amount of whiskey burning a hole through my belly— kind that spells trouble, and I'm surprised that for once it finds me instead of the other way around.

"Ain't that the broad you were messin' around with at Buck's place, on your birthday?" Rafa stumbles out of the car, his limbs flowing like water. "What's she doin' with _him_?"

I narrow my eyes a little as I scan the crowd, but it's definitely Gabi, talking to some guy I don't recognize at all— takes me a second to realize they're arguing, though, as I step closer to them. "I thought you were gonna become a priest, last time we talked." When she huffs, she blows a strand of hair out of her face. "Live a life devoted to God. Last time we talked, the only thing I ever did was distract you from his _vision_."

"Maybe I changed my mind," he says, high and reedy. "I want you to be my girl again— I'm never gonna find anything better than what we had."

"Priesthood doesn't really come with an exemption clause, does it?" and I actually stifle a laugh with my knuckles, she's got him there. "You can't possibly have both, and I ain't stupid enough to not figure out what you're gonna pick."

"I'm in love with you," he insists, enough fervor in his voice that even I'm briefly swayed by it. "We got history, we been together since we were fourteen, I don't know how you can just throw all that away—"

"I _said_ we're finished." She gives him a hard sniff, turns to walk away from him. "Go home, Tenoch. You're drunk as all get-out."

I'll admit it, I hesitate to interfere here. Despite what Joe seems to think, a year spent as lab partners and a fuck on my birthday, that doesn't make her my broad— or my problem. I try not to get involved in other people's business, _especially_ domestics, which can blow up like a home firework all over you. I got enough of my own to handle.

Then he puts his hands on her. He's a skinny guy, not real tall either— the sort of build you see in the downtown outfits, where boys don't get nearly enough to eat and turn out all hungry and desperate— but he's big enough that her wrist twists back in his grip, and I step forward. Saw too much of this shit growing up, saw my mama slapped around by every man who walked into her house, whether she deserved it or not. "What you doin'?" Rafa asks, his gaze unfocused. "Tim—"

"Just give me a minute," I say, walk on over to them before I can talk myself out of it. I don't need to get my courage from a bottle, but I can't deny that the liquor's made its mark on me already. "Hey," I call out. Don't do anything dumb and rash like reach for my switch, there's always time to escalate later, especially at a hangout as wild as this. "What's goin' on here?"

"Nothin', nothing's goin' on," the holy brother says. He's not from any outfit at all, most likely— not with that cagey, frozen expression, or those soft hands, or the fucking argyle sweater vest he has on. Guess all kinds can slap a woman around. "Just catchin' up."

I turn to her, not really interested in hearing out his side of this; she's looking at me with a mix of apprehension and anger, and I've already started to regret this, but I've never been much of one for admitting when I'm wrong. "He bothering you?"

"Tim, it's fine, it's nothin', like he said." She toys with the straps of her purse; there's still red marks on her wrist, the imprint of his fingers clearly visible. "We were just talkin'."

I wrap an arm around her waist, real possessive like, close enough to smell the perfume she has on. "This shit ain't cute." It's not exactly hard to stare him down, I wouldn't have been surprised if I saw a dark stain form on the front of his chinos. "Get the fuck outta here, and don't let me catch you touchin' my broad again."

If he had a pair of balls, he would've tried to fight me over that last bit, but instead he just skitters off like a spooked deer— it's Gabi who ends up having the courage, out of the two of them. "I ain't your broad." She jerks away from me like _I'm_ the one who smacked her. "Last I checked, anyway."

"Well, ain't you somethin', princess," I drawl, more annoyed than I have a right to be. "Then how come I got the leader of the Kings rollin' up on me, sayin' as much?"

"_What_? I definitely didn't ask him to." She blushes and crosses her arms, looks away from me. "Why would Joe do somethin' like that?"

I don't want to turn the machete's edge of my sarcasm on her, it's not really the time or place for it, and there's no answer I can give about Joe that isn't deeply mocking. Nor do I want to start grilling her about her brother. "He hit you before? Jesus—"

"You expect me to believe _you_ never hit a girl before?" She shrugs a shoulder, shifting her purse strap down as she does it. "It's not a big deal, Tim, he was just upset. It won't bruise or nothing."

"What, because I'm a hood, you think I put girls through walls now?" Ed hit my mama often enough when I was a kid, and while I'm not fond enough of Mary Magdalene to run interference, Luis smacking her into counters makes me feel something dangerously close to pity for the bitch. I don't do that shit. "I told you, my ex screwed around on me, I didn't even hit her then."

I don't admit to her that it was less nobility that kept me from it, more pride, when I beat the hell out of that Brumly boy once I caught up with him. I didn't like to use my fists when I knew words would cut her a lot deeper.

"Look, I'm sorry... I have to go," she says, out of breath like she's just run a mile. I think she might want to cry, but she's too proud to do it in front of me. "I wasn't going to stay, I didn't expect him to be here—" She's not dressed for a party, I note for the first time, looks more like she belongs at a diner in her poodle skirt, hair tied up with a big pink ribbon. "I have to go haul my sister out of here before our daddy figures she's gone, he's gonna string us both up by our thumbs."

I should offer to help find her, as she heads back into the crowd, even if I can't drive her home without leaving Rafa passed out on the sidewalk. But Christ, seems like I've done more than enough already, and the liquor churning in my stomach starts to eat away at me like acid.

* * *

I don't _enjoy_ maintaining discipline in the crew, I'm not quite that kind of psychopath (by which I honestly mean Alberto). But after having to fix their latest fuck-up on my inevitable hangover, when I approach Alex in our abandoned lot, I can't say this is going to move me to tears, either.

"Funny story I heard from the Brumly boy tryna pick up our _mota_ today," I start, low and careful, like I'm luring an animal into a trap. "I gotta use the word _try_, 'cause turns out, there wasn't much for him to pick up. Now, was he too drunk or just too plain retarded to notice you, or did you leave your corner?"

Fortunately, nobody from Brumly is all that bright, or even has an IQ in the triple digits. Someone from a bigger outfit might've suspected we'd gone back on the deal; all I had to do was promise to buy Gary a drink Friday night, and put in a good word for him with my buddy Esteban's sister. But it's the principle of the matter, I can't just let this slide.

"_Maldita sea_, man.." He runs his fingers through his greased-up hair, messes it up in the front. Won't meet my eyes, either; everyone else around us quits shooting the shit, doesn't want to miss the show. "Maria Teresa got in a wreck and I had to take her to the hospital, _sabes_ Ma's workin' day shifts now—"

"I don't need your excuses," I force myself to say, instead of asking how Maria Teresa is, "you got any idea how lucky you are that it was just some Brumly _burro_, that I was around to clean up your mess? What if my uncles thought you ran off with the product?"

Alex grimaces, but he still clenches his jaw, like he'll take anything I give out and do it all over again. I've worn that look enough times myself, and I don't like seeing it now. "What if it was Angela? What would you do?"

I'd like to think I'd have the good sense to put business first, but I know myself, and I'm not so different from him after all. Can't say that, though, not when I spent five months away from my crew and swear I've had these little rebellions popping up ever since. "Don't talk back to me," I say, and roll up my sleeve. "You so sure you made the right decision, you can pay for it, then."

A tense, crackling silence settles over the lot, the kind that came right before a beating when Ed used to live with us; I try not to think about that. "Stand still," I say coolly, cock a fist at him. _You want their fear, not their love,_ Luis once told me, _you're real young, so you want them to know they have to take you seriously._ I've already been gone for five months and been paying for it ever since; Rafa did his best in my absence, but he doesn't have the gravitas to lead. I do.

He closes his eyes, and I've never been more conscious of all the people watching me, including Curly, who's too young to have a stomach for violence. I can't hesitate, show them any exploitable weakness, so I bring my fist down on his nose, hard enough to break it with an audible crack. He stumbles back from the blow, cusses and clutches at his face, blood spilling through his slightly-parted fingers and soaking into the dirty fabric of his shirt; I let him work his way into the circle again, into his friends' sympathetic looks and pats on the shoulder. "Anyone else think my orders take second place to whatever personal bullshit they got goin' on?"

Even though I'm sure at least three of them do, no one says a word. "Get him cleaned up, he's a damn biohazard at this rate," I bark at Nate and Rafa, who are flanking him, "and Alex?" He looks at me through filmy eyes. "You pull something like this again, I'm gonna whip you with a fucking dog chain. _Entiendes_? Or you learn your lesson now?"

He bares his teeth at me, gleaming red like I smacked him in the mouth. "Yeah. I learned it."

* * *

"You shouldn't have done that to Alex," Curly says as he slumps into my passenger seat. His bottom lip is bloody, like he's been chewing straight through it. Thought he'd given up that habit when we were kids.

"Yeah, you think, _manito_?" I say with a laugh, not taking him seriously at all. "I've done a lot worse than give someone a damn nosebleed, trust me. Broke Nate's arm when he stole those acid tabs."

I don't mention that I threw up in the shower at home, clogging the drain— I'd only been fifteen, and Alberto had stood over me the entire time, made sure I did the job properly. I'm not such a little _maricón_ anymore.

"He's callin' you a _puto pendejo." _He kicks a foot up on my dash. "His sister was in a car wreck, Jesus—"

"Unless she's on life support, I don't really want to hear it," I cut him off sharply. "If he didn't just spin some story to try to get out of trouble, that is."

"He was your best friend when we was kids—"

"He's not my_ friend_ when it comes to this, I don't play favorites." I parrot Luis's words. "Ain't no room for friends in this life." _Ain't nobody you can trust but family, Timmy. You'll figure that out soon enough._

"You sound like one of them corny cartoon villains with Russian accents."

"Listen to me," I say with more irritation than he deserves, like I'm trying to justify it to myself. "This is serious business, Curls, okay? We ain't sellin' Girl Scout cookies here. If someone's not on their corner when they're supposed to be, or anything else goes wrong— people get arrested, or they get shot, they get killed." _Like Dad_, lies unspoken between us. "He's lucky I'm the one who caught him, not _tios_. Luis probably would've gone straight for the chain."

"You gotta _hit_ them, though?"

"You know what, kid, you're right. I think next time, I'll tell his mama he's been a _very_ naughty boy, and maybe she'll send him to bed with no dessert." I crank up the radio, hope I Get Around can drown out him yakking at me. "Grow up, _puto_. You're too young to be jumped in, if you're gonna start crying over some lil' bump in Alex's nose."

"Would you do it to me?" he asks, looks at me out the corner of his eye. Like he's just had to work out the intersection between Tim, his menacing but ultimately harmless brother, and Tim, his gang leader, for the first time.

"I'd rather not," I admit as I floor it, want to cut this conversation short. Curly knows he's my weakness; both my siblings are, in different ways. "So don't make me have to."

The silence between us pulses with a life of its own. "You wanna make fun of Leave It To Beaver with me when we get home?" We always used to do that, especially that one Hispanic kid they put on the show to give it a shred of realism— I'm still waiting for Ward to act like a normal father for once and throw some plates or something at his boys, instead of maintaining that eerie serial killer calm. "There's probably beers left in the fridge."

"Yeah, sure," he says, but he's faking any enthusiasm for it. Stares out the window, as we drive past the abandoned liquor store I made him tag last week, and I don't push him further.


	5. A Matter of Trust

... I guess I missed this story, even after all this time? The Shepards never really leave my mind :(

* * *

I always try to be nice to whatever member of my crew's ended up in my bad graces, tell myself it's all about boosting team morale instead of assuaging my own guilt. So when I hand Alex a beer at one of our endless rounds of parties, I plaster a smile on my face like everything's okay. He's been wearing a bandage around, I have to wonder if he convinced the ER doctors to give him a two-for-one deal. "You good?"

"I can't breathe out my nose, you know, I've been doin' better."

"Quit poutin' like a kid who got spanked." This time my voice is all harsh, he shouldn't have lit my olive branch on fire. "You fucked up, I had to clean up after you before someone got a bullet through their skull, you know the score. You think you deserve special treatment just 'cause we been friends since grade school?"

"Huh." He spits the wad of chew in his mouth onto the floor, sprays flecks of brown liquid onto his cheek. "That's what you still consider us?"

"This look like a fucking preschool to you, _puto_?" When I get hurt, I get mean, on general principle; I grasp his shoulder, dig my fingers into his flesh hard enough to leave indents. "I trusted you with that corner, I trusted you with that deal. That should tell you everything you need to know."

"Maria Teresa's got internal bleeding and a concussion, she's gonna need surgery," he says pointedly. "She was askin' why you didn't bother to visit her. Askin' what happened to my face, too."

I always liked Maria Teresa, she's a real tuff chick— we ran around for a couple months when we were sixteen, when Bonnie and I were on the outs— but I was raised by a devoutly Catholic mother, which makes me immune to guilt trips. "I'll send her a fruit basket, how 'bout it?"

"Give it a rest." Rafa comes up to him with a cigarette dangling from between his lips, trying for a note of authority he doesn't really have. "You milked this fucking broken nose like he snapped your spine in half, you oughta be glad he didn't tell Luis what you pulled. Ask the principal to let you come back to Will Rogers if you can't handle the life."

"So y'all got matching halves of a Best Friends locket now, or what?"

Normally, I let the two of them jockey for whoever gets to be my second-in-command without interfering, and I've occasionally stoked the flames for my own amusement, but I already have a wine headache pounding against the back and sides of my skull and I ain't in the mood. All my friends are my inferiors, even Rafa, in a way they weren't even when we were younger and my gang was just getting off the ground. Maybe that's why I think it's a good idea to go meet up with Dally Winston.

* * *

If you're looking for Dallas, trying Buck's place is a decent bet, no matter what day of the week it is or what time— he practically lives in one of his spare rooms when he isn't crashing with the Curtises, or trying to steal some horse off his old man. He runs actual horses for him, does rodeo, which is about the only honest thing he's ever done in his sixteen— sorry, now _seventeen_— years.

"Tell your new daddy I don't need his charity." I slide into the seat next to him at Buck's sorry excuse for a bar; it's barely three, but Dallas usually operates on the principle that it's five o'clock somewhere, and he's nursing a glass of whiskey between drags on his cigarette. "Before I have to tell him myself twice. Ain't I already made that much clear to Tulsa's answer to the Cleavers?"

"I don't know what you had to go steal Mom's watch for," he says, his upper lip curling. After Soda Curtis beat the hell out of me and stole it back, Dallas showed up in my territory the next day for the KO. "Jesus. She didn't deserve that shit."

"I needed to make rent," I lie. I stole it because I never wanted to be invited to that house again, and I got my wish, up until now. "And she ain't your mom."

He stubs his cigarette out onto the ashtray. "Don't be an ass, man," he says once he's lit another Kool— I don't understand how he can smoke so many menthols, they're nasty as hell. "They're all right," he adds with a brief shrug, which from Dally Winston is higher praise than you'd find in an eulogy. "Mrs. C knows the score, she ain't some do-gooder. She gets what things are like 'round here."

_Mrs. C is a rich society daughter from Texas, who grew up with a preacher daddy whose congregation provided him with a parish Cadillac, so I'm not sure what kind of score _she's_ supposed to have down._ Luis told me all this when I was sixteen, so hammered he had a two-day hangover once he sobered up, in the middle of a lengthy ramble about why I should leave my white girlfriend— gabachas_ are the death of every man in this family, huh?_ I don't know what drove her to leave that cushy little Garden of Eden to have four kids with an Indian drug dealer, but I don't really feel like pressing Luis about whatever else she let slip during their pillow talk, either.

I nudge him in the side with my elbow, instead of saying any of that. "That broad's the reason why you're still stuck in school; if she had any sense, she'd realize you're the worst influence that place's ever seen. Not to mention how much you could be earnin' if you wasn't behind a desk all day."

"Eh, Soda and Johnny are there, it ain't so bad. 'Sides, I got customers there, Soc kids are real easy to fool with the ol' oregano in the grass trick."

"Christ, your gang got mixed up in murder raps in Bed-Stuy, and that's what you're proud of now—"

"Don't tell me you're tryna get me into _your_ gang again?" he asks amusedly, like I'm a door-to-door vacuum salesman who doesn't know when to quit. "Shepard, I ain't interested in takin' your orders or suckin' your dick, for the last time."

"You really happy beatin' up spoiled rich kids from Will Rogers all day?" That's the problem with Dally, why he could never lead an outfit. He's got no fucking ambition. "Y'know I'd let you be my second. Could be convinced to add no jump-in."

"You should take the job," he says instead of answering a word out of my mouth, and I almost fall off the stool from sheer shock. "'S a good offer."

"Darrel Senior himself put you up to this?"

"Nah, but he was cussin' you real good at breakfast the other day, says you're a stubborn little shit who doesn't know an opportunity when he sees it," he says almost admiringly. "I mean, I'm happy when he's sayin' that 'bout anyone who ain't me, but he's right. You really want to be slingin' drinks until you're off probation?"

"Might be less work."

"Awh—" I walked right into this one— "would ya look at that. What, you afraid your arms are fixin' to give out, _Tina_—"

I take the bait he so easily offers, with Dally, I can always be taunted into a good fight— I'm a year older and stronger than him, which helps me tackle him off the barstool and onto the ground, but he's about the dirtiest fighter I've ever met, like a girl. He's driven his knee into my groin and sunk his sharp little animal teeth into my neck before Buck notices what's up.

"Not _now_." Buck pulls us apart by the scruffs of our necks, like we're misbehaving kittens, even gives us both a shake for the full effect. "Fuck's sake, it's not even dark yet, I gotta break y'all up again before you start smashin' glassware? Go upstairs if you want to get some of that sexual tension out."

"He'd be my bitch," Dallas automatically says, and though I'd rather answer that with another right hook, I settle for flipping him off. As usual, he's only tolerable in ten minute doses.

"Hey, Tim," he calls out just as I push the door open, the bell letting out an aborted jingle; against my better judgement, I loiter in the doorway. "It's 'cause I trust them, they're my buddies, you dig? I know they got my back in a rumble, or in a deal, they couldn't do me dirty even if they tried." Dallas Winston, being all earnest and shit. Someone should call up Lucifer and ask what the weather's looking like in hell. Then he smirks at me. "You think that's why we can always whip you an' yours?"

* * *

"... Seventeen's for babies, there's nothin' but articles about these British weirdos called The Beatles," Angela says scornfully as I walk into the kitchen, tossing a magazine onto the table and lighting a cigarette with easy practice. Since when does she smoke? "I read Cosmo now."

"Okay, Miss Thing, don't you think you're a lil' young for that?" Bonnie pulls at one of her curls playfully— wait, why the fuck is she in my house. "I ain't ready to talk to you about a girl's best blowjob tips."

At the word 'blowjob', I swear my brain just short-circuits. "The hell are you doin' here?" I snatch the cigarette out of Angela's hand and stick it in my own mouth, no sense in wasting a decent weed— that's all I need, Bonnie here, teaching my baby sister even more bad habits than she's already picked up. "Lady, I catch you lightin' up again, I swear I'm gonna tie your fingers together."

"You ain't my boss," Angela says with a pout— despite the garishly bright lipstick she has on, a shade I swear I've seen on our mama, it just highlights how young she really is under all that makeup. I changed this kid's diapers. "Like _you_ weren't lighting up when you were younger than me."

"You talkin' back to me now?" Yeah, I was younger than her, maybe eleven or twelve when I started, but that's different. I'm a guy, she's a little girl. It ain't right.

"Tim, it's just a cigarette, quit makin' an ass out of yourself," Bonnie makes sure to cut in, and I actually grit my teeth together. The one time I saw a dentist as a kid, he recommended headgear. "She ain't wrong, you're bein' a real hypocrite. Half the girls in this neighborhood smoke."

I inhale, almost deep enough to cough on it, to soothe my nerves. Doesn't work. "Angela, go to your room," I say on the exhale, point at the hallway. "Nah, first go to the bathroom and wash that shit off your face, then go to your room."

She flips me off, but she listens to me, she's smart enough to figure out that's her best move right now. Bonnie claps. "Your dick real hard now?" she asks, taps her nails against the wood of the table. "You came home, showed the lil' women who's in charge?"

"You got a lot of nerve showin' up here, underminin' me," I say like I'm Angela's daddy, but I damn well know I'm the closest thing she's got, Luis has never had any more interest in her than telling her to be a good girl and listen to her brothers. "She's already been a little _salvaje_ lately, I don't need you encouragin' it."

"She's a real _salvaje_, huh, real _cabrona— _that your biggest problem with her right now, Tim? That all you care about?"

I turn my head towards her, show off the silvery scar cutting down my face, temple to chin. "Don't question what I care about. You know damn well she's my top priority. I don't get what you're playin' at—"

"I ditched you, Tim, I didn't ditch your family. Angel needs someone in her corner who has the first clue what they're doing, and God, with your mother—"

She's right, as little as I want to admit that. Closest experience I've got is creepy ass Father Declan trying to go in for a kiss and shove his hand down my pants when I was fourteen, which marked the end of my career as an altar boy after I broke his nose— I swear all priests are closet perverts. Angel says that's all Liam did, grope at her, steal some kisses when no one else was home. I don't believe her for a minute, but I'm too much of a coward to push her, ask if that's what she told the cops or social worker. "_I'm_ her corner," I say, my mouth tasting sour. I'm too much of a coward to ask what my mother has to do with anything, either. "I think you really oughta go."

She gives me a withering look before she gets up— I'm pretty immune to her withering looks at this point, fortunately, they don't have close to the same effect they did on me when we were dating. Our lives, they're still entwined too thoroughly. You know why she cheated on me, the reason I turn over in my mind at night? Because she probably wanted to do something I didn't know about.

* * *

Second time in about as many weeks that Gabi's shown up on my porch. I guess lightning really does strike twice.

"I leave my wallet behind again, or what?" I drawl with a lot more sarcasm than she deserves, my arms crossed— I feel like dog shit after I do, I shouldn't take my lingering frustration with Bonnie out on her.

She looks genuinely crushed, which makes me feel even worse, if that's possible. "Tim, I—"

"You don't have to say it," I can tell what she's about to before she does, and I don't want or need to hear it from her; I scuff my foot on our weatherbeaten welcome mat. I've never been great with apologies, giving or receiving them. I keep looking at the neat bow of her lips while I think about this.

"No, I..." There's a stray strand of hair that's come loose around her forehead, a curl, does she straighten it? I want to sweep it behind her ear, and wonder where the hell that urge came from. "I'm sorry. What you did was real sweet, I shouldn't have had such an attitude about it. Or said you'd slap around— I just—"

"It's okay," I say quickly, I don't need to hear any more gratitude out of her. The few times someone intervened when Ed beat on me, I wasn't so grateful either, only felt sticky shame and turned on them in my misplaced anger. I get it. I'm real proud, too. "I was showin' off, anyway," I admit with some warmth rising in my cheeks, remember how I called her 'my broad' like I owned her. Like I have any kind of claim over her at all, sleeping with her at a party. "I just... didn't want to see him touchin' you, that's all."

She looks at me with liquid dark eyes, and maybe that sentence came with a few more implications than I intended. "Yeah?"

I should let this nice girl work out her complicated feelings towards her ex, who obviously wasn't much to write home about, in peace. I should maybe work out my complicated feelings towards my own ex, who I didn't exactly end things with on good terms, or even halfway decent ones. "Do you want to go out?" I ask instead, my mouth working before my brain can get a leash on it. Once it's out, though, I can't bring myself to take it back. "Like. On a real date. I ain't completely incapable of romance."

She blushes, stares down at our rotting floorboards. She looks real cute in pink; hell, she'd look real cute in any color. Smiles at me, though, which eases my sudden lurch of nerves that she might say no, that I'm pushing my luck with her. "Yeah, Tim, I'd like that."

"You free this Saturday?" I try not to sound too eager, play it cool with her— broads don't always take that so great. "I'll pick you up—"

I've always prided myself on not doing my thinking with my dick, unlike most of my male relatives, and I'm smart enough to realize, in my heart of hearts, that I shouldn't be going after anything more serious than a one night stand. I don't know why I can't get her out of my head. Or why I thought about her in the shower yesterday morning, when I only have blurred outlines of what she looks like naked in my head, ones I had to fill in with my imagination. Maybe the universe, hell, Jesus Christ himself, is trying to tell me something.

Maybe I'm just not half as immune to thinking with my dick as I always considered myself.

* * *

On the drive home from another shift, I mean to go down my own street, to my own house. Instead I pull over, cuss to myself for a solid minute, then turn around and head in the opposite direction.

I'm interrupting when I show, it's a bad time— Mrs. Curtis pulls the door open after I ring the bell, and I get an earful of the loud clatter of forks, their equally noisy conversation. She could look happier to see me, gives me that thin-lipped smile you get from white people when you pass them in the grocery aisle. "_Hi_, Tim," she says anyway. "We're havin' supper right now... do you want me to fix you a plate?"

"No, ma'am." My stomach clenches around nothing, giving me a rush of nausea, and I'm tempted. Money's been coming in real slow lately, without Ed around to provide even the odd paycheck, and whatever I have I obviously use to feed the kids. But it'll be a cold one in hell before I start taking charity— you can always get full again, after you've been hungry, it's not so easy to get your pride back— and especially from her. "Your husband home? I need to talk to him."

My one sad act of good manners softens the tension in her face, like she never expected me to have any at all. "Yeah, he's just inside— Darrel, can you come out here for a second? Tim's at the door, Tim Shepard."

He could stand to look a little more humble when he sees me on his porch. At least a touch surprised. "Everythin' all right, son?"

Goddammit. I've never liked swallowing my pride, I'd be better at swallowing ground glass. "Um. 'Bout that job..."

"Yeah?" Guess he really doesn't plan on making this easy for me; his mouth scrunches up like he's trying to keep from laughing. I'm glad he finds this so fucking funny. "What about it?"

He's gonna make me say it loud, isn't he. "I can't take another day at that bar," I crack, "I got more cousins than I ever suspected, and I swear every last one of them wants to fight me if I don't let them drink themselves unconscious. I didn't need to know who they're fucking or planning to shoot or who's got what problem with their brother-in-law, I ain't no psychotherapist. This job's gonna kill me. Or I'm fixin' to kill myself before my uncle gets to teach me some valuable lesson 'bout the importance of social skills."

"So you want a place on my site after all?"

"Do I have to beg for it?"

He does laugh then, a loud bellow, and claps me on the back hard enough I stumble forwards two steps. "Shit, Tim, think you're gonna fit in with us just fine."


End file.
